


the ice does not forgive

by vipereyed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I have a lot of Black family feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 20:31:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17752991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipereyed/pseuds/vipereyed
Summary: “What is it that I have always taught you? You are the flower that hides a serpent, and it is better that way. You strike when they don’t see it coming.”





	the ice does not forgive

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers if you don't know about narcissa at the end of hp7, i guess? lol anyway, review and enjoy :)

_“i am nothing but words,  
just a shape of dreams or night.”_

_(EURIPIDES, HERAKLES)_

_“Hands, softer than he had been expecting, touched Harry's face, pulled back an eyelid, crept beneath his shirt, down to his chest, and felt his heart. He could feel the woman's fast breathing, her long hair tickled his face. He knew that she could feel the steady pounding of life against his ribs.”_

_(JK ROWLING, HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS)_

I: MAIDEN.

 **i)**     The ancestral townhouse of the Black family is large and foreboding but it is home. Hidden away in Islington and surrounded by Muggles, it remains a constant source of noise, of action; of life. Indian curry shops and chippies and Muggle clothing stores line the streets, not that Narcissa would ever dare to step foot into any of them. Her father and Aunt Walburga complain about how Muggles are infiltrating everywhere, thus creating more Mudbloods, but Narcissa finds that she likes the liveliness of their street.

Wiltshire pales in comparison.

Despite the massiveness of their home, the three sisters have always shared a bedroom. Narcissa never minded, preferring the bonds with her sisters over those of any potentially unfaithful friends. The three of them have always been close and in school were somewhat of an enigma, never becoming overly acquainted with anyone, not even the snakes in their own House. Who better to tell when the snake will strike than a fellow serpent?

“Lucius Malfoy is an overly arrogant, poncy bastard.” Bellatrix declares one morning, her voice its usual low drawl. It’s been nearly a year since she’s married Rodolphus in an act of complacency that shocked her parents, though they would never say as much. On the eve of her wedding, Bella had kissed Narcissa’s cheek, her lips warm. ‘He is merely a means to an end, Cissy,’ she had whispered, so soft and quiet into the night that Narcissa wasn’t sure if her sister had spoken or if it were her imagination.

Now, Narcissa sighs from her spot on her bed. It has been almost exactly three months since her betrothal to the Malfoy heir has been announced and Bella’s words do little to assure her. She unwraps a Chocolate Frog, not sparing a second glance at the card before she tosses it. “Salazar, Bella.”

Bella remains unfazed as always. Nothing truly bothers her eldest sister, not in a way that can be seen at least, but Narcissa doubts anything affects Bella even on a visceral level. “What, Cissa? I’m warning you of your betrothed’s prissy nature.” Next to her, Andromeda stifles a giggle unsuccessfully.

“Father will be mad if you keep saying such things. He intimated he believes that the sudden lack of proposals for me have been your fault.” Her hands smooth down the rose colored silk of her gown and she watches as Bellatrix’s deft fingers clench. “I have reason to believe he’s right, of course.”

A muscle in her older sister’s jaw clenches and she watches in interest as the dark eyes, so unlike hers, harden; something dark passes over her sister’s face, the likes of which Narcissa would like to never witness again. The rumors about her sister are known to her, of course; she’d been hearing them since Hogwarts, whispers of curses directed at small animals and attempts at inventing horrible spells and attacks on the school’s muggle-born population. Now, Bella is twenty and a woman grown, and the rumors have persisted. Beneath the thin fabric of her midnight blue robes, Narcissa knows that her sister’s forearm is puffy and red, freshly Marked in devotion to her Master. It is no position fit for a woman, her father’s friends say, and yet Bellatrix did it regardless. There are whispers now of the blood shed from Bellatrix’s hands, of crazed laughter and madness and her gratuitous use of Unforgivables. Narcissa knows all of this, and knows them to be true, but says nothing.

“What would you rather me do, sweet sister?” she twirls her wand between her fingers, blows a lock of curly, dark hair from her face. “Shall I sit and look pretty as my sister dutifully marries into a family filled with greed and madmen?”

Andromeda snorts and shoves Bellatrix lightly. “Because that’s a concept we’re so unfamiliar with.” She quips with a roll of her eyes. Her second sister’s engagement to Evan Rosier has been finalized, and Narcissa knows that Andromeda sits in silent fury over it. She isn’t thrilled with the prospect of her own marriage, but she recognizes there is little for her to do as a Pureblood woman making her way into society.

Her sisters laugh at the remark, and soon Narcissa finds herself joining in, the three of them soon delving into raucous laughter that Mother asks for them to quiet.

 

Mother receives an invitation to the Malfoy’s annual ball. It is an event which occurs every year, and each year an owl comes bearing their invitation, but this year it is important. The thread of impending marriage between Narcissa and Lucius hangs over both families’ heads, and Mother is adamant that Narcissa must be aware of that. Father gives Mother money to commission dress robes, and Narcissa finds herself and Andromeda being dragged to Madam Malkin’s almost weekly, bringing home gowns of blues and pinks and white and emerald, adorned with pearls and woven with lace details, stitched from top designers in France and Italy and even England’s finest. The seamstress charms the gowns to fit to her body like a second skin and Narcissa says nothing, even when Mother tells her she must restrict herself, must eat like a lady does, a bite here and a nibble here. To _hang out_ in such a gown would be more than unbecoming.

Her mother arranges her honeyed curls to sophistication, Narcissa’s hair flowing through her fingers like silk. “You must be the epitome of grace, darling,” Mother tells her as she pins a stray curl back. Narcissa tries not to squirm. “You were meant for this, I know you were. Now it is a matter of making them see it.”

Narcissa nods, but her insecurities (of which there are precious few) betray her. She is not an enigmatic presence like Bellatrix, who can walk into a room and command attention with just a toss of her head, nor does she possess the wit and charm of Andromeda. The warrior and ruler of man are constellations which hold galaxies inside of them; Narcissa is a flower that of which is simply pleasing to look at.  

“I do not possess the…qualities which Andromeda and Bellatrix do, Mother.” She swallows and holds her head up high. “I refuse to be an afterthought, because of this.”

Her mother smiles at her from her reflection in the mirror. She’s always known her mother is a beautiful woman, petite and shapely but not overly so, with bright cerulean eyes and chestnut hair. Narcissa does not consider herself ugly, but she knows she pales in comparison. Pale enough to fade into the background.

“Narcissa.” Her mother’s hand is warm against her cheek and instinctively Narcissa leans into the touch. “What is it that I have always taught you? You are the flower that hides a serpent, and it is better that way. You strike when they don’t see it coming.”

“What are the words of our House, darling?”

“Toujours pur.”

“Very good. We’ve remained unblemished throughout centuries. While other families have had to marry halfbloods and mudbloods to continue their line, we have remained _pure_. Muggle filth cannot conquer us, my dear, and we remain all the stronger for it. Stronger than even the Malfoys.”

Mother ghosts her lips against the crown of her head and whispers, “You are a Black. You do not bend to anyone. You are inferior to _no one_.”

 **ii)** The gala is in full swing when Narcissa and Andromeda arrive, with the both of them being whisked away instantaneously to converse with their future husbands.

They’ve left Narcissa and Lucius alone on the balcony. The cool night air is refreshing on her skin, and it is quiet out there, the dim noise of the ball inside diminished by silencing and muffling charms. Narcissa draws her fur stole tighter around her as her eyes flit over to Lucius Malfoy. She is not afraid; her whole life has led up to this.

Lucius Malfoy, a familiar face from school years past, has changed. He’s grown taller and he wears his hair long now, past his shoulders where it rests, sleek straight and white blond. He leans against his cane, the silver of the snakehead sparkling in the night, and from his looks alone it is evident: Lucius Malfoy was not only born into money, but he was born to do something.

Narcissa is not taken aback by his handsomeness upon first seeing him. She does not think about how, when she sits prettily at his side, she will be the envy of every Pureblood debutant. She does not even consider whether it will be easy to fall in love with him.

Her eyes rove over the Manor and its riches, and the rolling lands of Wiltshire in the distance, all in property of the Malfoys. She drinks in the sight and thinks: _all of this will be mine, one day. It is within my grasp. All I have to do is reach for it._

She will be a proper Pureblood wife, the way Mother is. She knows what that means – it means being seen and not heard, planning lunches with other wives of high society and keeping occupied with mindless gossip, to bear heir after heir for a husband, to be nothing but a _prize_. All of these were norms that Bellatrix fought – and continues to fight – so hard against. Her eldest sister’s words come to mind unbidden, and Narcissa blinks them away.

“My lady.” Something cool brushes against the bones of her knuckles and Narcissa realizes that it’s Lucius’s lips, having bent down to capture her hand in a kiss. Her face remains composed, despite her stomach lurching.

Remembering her manners, she manages a curtsy that would make her mother proud. “Lucius. My family and I thank you for your gracious invitation to the Malfoy annual ball.”

The corners of his lips lift into the impression of a smirk. Narcissa is familiar with the expression, having seen it at Hogwarts countless times. Lucius’ eyes gleam silver in the moonlight, making them look almost otherworldly.

“The pleasure is mine, my lady, but I must confess that you are better off showing such thanks to my mother. I do not concern myself with ball invitations.” Amusement colors his tone, and Narcissa realizes he’s jesting with her. She swallows and nods, not knowing what else to say. Through the glass of the sliding door which leads back inside she notices Abraxas Malfoy staring at them both, eyes heavy with greed, approval, and lust. Narcissa represses the urge to shudder at that.

“So,” she begins, already knowing that her next words will have none of the coyness or flirtatious playfulness that Andromeda tried in vain to teach her. “We are to be betrothed.”

The balcony is empty except for them, two lone figures in the night, but Narcissa is not naïve. She knows that ears and eyes hide everywhere, these days. She keeps her gaze out over the railing, remaining focused on the greenery of Wiltshire and beyond.

Out of her periphery, she sees Lucius turn to regard her in amusement. “Indeed, Narcissa.”

She draws her furs tighter still around her, finding comfort in the softness which tickles her cheek. Still, she does not chance turning to look at him, not when the words she will speak can make or break their potential union. “I will not dress this in flowery words, then, and be direct. It is important to be honest in a marriage. It is important to both the courtship, and to me.”

A flash of white tells her that Lucius has nodded. “I agree,” he murmurs, out into the night.

“I have no illusions about this betrothal, with it having been arranged by my parents—“ not for the first time Narcissa wishes she was as gifted with words as Andromeda as she cringes at the innocence in that statement, wishes she was blessed with Bella’s ferocity, or even the bravery of her foolish cousin. She links arms with Lucius and does not squirm under the intensity of his gaze; she knows he is scrutinizing her, considering her, trying to figure out the woman he will be marrying. “We do not love one another, Lucius. I only ask for you to be honest with me. I wish not to be second to another, when we marry. I will not be your afterthought.”

Lucius remains quiet. Narcissa begins to fear that maybe she overstepped her boundaries; Bella would cheer her on, Andromeda would shake her head at the brashness of it, and Mother would reprimand her for the nerve of such a statement.

He clears his throat. “I do not have a reputation for whoring. At least, not to my knowledge.” There’s steel beneath the dryness of his tone and Narcissa bites on the salty inside of her cheek.

It is true that Lucius Malfoy does not have a reputation for whoring. He has a reputation for power, and ambition, and has since his schooldays. Narcissa doesn’t think it necessary to remind him that powerful men create their own tales, and not anyone else.

Lucius steps forward and with a long, pale finger, tilts her chin up so she can meet his eyes. Narcissa can feel her eyes widen a fraction as scenarios run through her mind; surely this is it and he will command her to never question him again, he will tell her that as a wife her duties do not concern what he does, and she will fade into obscurity, a dried flower among bright stars.

“Narcissa,” he murmurs, the pads of his fingers stroking her chin delicately. “What you said is true. This is not a love match. But I want to be a good husband to you, Narcissa. I want you to trust me.”

She closes her eyes and nods. Lucius releases her and together, they watch the night sky over the balcony, arms entwined.

 **iii)**     Her wedding day arrives two months later. Bellatrix says nothing, opting to glare at her instead.

Bellatrix is all she has left now. Andromeda left her nothing but a letter detailing why, exactly, she had to run off with a mudblood and abandon her family. She couldn’t ‘be docile and do nothing’ about her own impending nuptials, and decided to choose _filth_ over blood. Narcissa still cannot even think of it, cannot speak her sister’s name without wanting to cry while breaking everything in the house simultaneously.

It’s as though a part of her is gone.

Bella is still there, but as she watches her sister grow increasingly fanatical – and thus violent – for her Lord, Narcissa wonders how long it will take for the final thread of Bella’s fragile sanity to snap before she loses her, too. She doesn’t know if she can handle losing both of her sisters.

“Bella,” she chides as the elves work on lacing her up in the white gown. The material is thick, and heavy, and the corset is so tight Narcissa fears she will pass out before she says her vows. “Please, don’t be like this. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Her sister rolls her large, dark eyes. Where there was once light in those eyes, now only a fanatical, half-mad glimmer remains. Today it is almost dormant. “I’m doing no such thing,” she protests, leaving Narcissa to be reminded of a time which has since long passed, when Bellatrix would say exactly that to get out of trouble with their parents. “I still don’t think he’s completely deserving of you but he’s better than a mudblood.” Her red lips twist into a scowl, an expression that seems to be favored by Bella these days. Narcissa sighs.

“Play nice, Bella. This _is_ your brother in law, and he and Rodolphus are rather close.”

“They are,” she agrees, and Narcissa watches in the mirror as Bella strolls casually until she’s behind her, kicking the elves out of the way without a second thought. She withholds a wince. “And that is why you must tell me if he mistreats you, sister. Tell me if he finds another lover or so much as thinks about raising a hand to you. Tell me, and I will give you his _heart._ ”

The mad gleam in those large, dark eyes is back and Narcissa says nothing. She turns and presses a kiss to her sister’s cheek in silence.

Behind her, Mother and Septima Malfoy await to lead her down the aisle. Narcissa steps daintily off of the platform and walks over to them, her head held high.

Her wedding is on a pleasant enough summer day; the sun does not overheat the guests, and there is no indicator of rain. The gown her mother commissioned for her is made of silk and was made to look airy, light, and delicate; but it weighs Narcissa down nonetheless and she feels as though she is drowning in the material. Leagues ahead she can see Lucius by the altar, dressed impeccably in black dress robes emblazoned with the Malfoy crest. There is the ghost of a smile on his lips that as she gets closer, she does not return.

She will be more than a bartering prize, today. She has to be.

“You’re nervous,” he murmurs as she reaches him. His face is composed in the usual mask but his silver eyes are molten with warmth.

“No,” she murmurs back, painted lips quirking into a small smirk. “I am a Black.”

Lucius delivers his vows clearly and calmly. He does not need to raise his voice, because the crowd hushes when he speaks; when Lucius talks, people listen. He has always had that charm about him, even in their schooldays, as the unspoken leader of his group of snakes consisting of Snape, Macnair, and Nott. The Professors themselves were captivated by him during class, and Narcissa remembers stealing glances out of the corner of her eye. He exudes power, charm, and intelligence; when he speaks, everything else seems to fall short of importance.

Narcissa says her vows lightly and gracefully, with her head held high and her eyes locked on his. She prides herself in not stuttering or tripping over her words or otherwise acting like a blushing, foolish bride. For the first time, she notices Lucius is looking at her with something akin to pride in his eyes, and she holds herself a little higher.

He presses their lips together in a chaste kiss after the ceremony, and Narcissa’s heart flutters.

 _This is the first day of the rest of your life_.

II: MOTHER

The bedchamber is quiet, ominously so, as Narcissa waits, lying against plush silk sheets and softer pillows. Lucius’ personal chambers are Slytherin green with grey accents, and Narcissa is struck by how _dark_ everything is. The Manor itself is darker – literally – as there are days where she can feel the weight of dark magic imposing on her.

Gooseflesh dots her body at the thought and Narcissa shakes her head to be rid of it. It will not pay to be nervous now, when so much depends on it; she must make him want her, she must become his confidant, warm and welcoming and dutiful and a pliant body belonging to an eager wife. She begins to unravel her hair from the elaborate updo which confines it and runs her fingers through the platinum curls, her fingers steadier than she anticipated.

The heavy footsteps signify his arrival and when the door opens, Narcissa is ready. She shrugs out of her gauzy robe and unclasps her nightgown, her gaze even and head held high as she watches Lucius’ quicksilver eyes rove over her figure, lingering at the swell of her breasts. She knows the picture she creates is far from one of an innocent, blushing bride but she will not bend to that.

Mother had told her to make sure his bedchamber remains his only solace, in hopes of keeping his attention. Narcissa intends to honor that advice.

“Lucius.”

Lucius steps forward not with the confident, cocky gait she expects and knows from him, but almost hesitantly, as though he is unsure. Narcissa is no fool; she knows the Malfoy heir has had women before, but this display of nerves humanizes him to her. He brushes a stray lock of hair from her face and she closes her eyes at the touch, leaning into it.

His throat works. “May I?”

Narcissa nods. “Yes,” she says again, for emphasis, and is surprised at how much she actually wants the man in front of her. “Yes.”

The next morning Lucius says nothing of what happened the night before; no sweet nothings, no ‘I love you’. He brushes his thumb against her plump bottom lip and smiles.

 **ii)**     Narcissa begins to embody the perfect Pureblood wife.

She expertly coordinates charity galas and shows up on Lucius’ arm at every important Ministry event. She brunches with other ladies of high society and maintains a haughty dignity when Cordelia Greengrass and Elvina Parkinson simper about how gorgeous she is, how lucky Lucius is to be blessed with such a wife. Bellatrix is absent from such events, of course; they are a reminder of the constraints of femininity which she tried so hard to break free from, and she has more important things to devote her time to, like the Dark Lord.

Death, Narcissa knows, surrounds them. Outside the bubble of the perfect society they’ve crafted for themselves, war is on the horizon and wizards and witches from both sides are killed daily. It is frowned upon for wives to discuss such a political, macabre topic, and so Narcissa sits leisurely and continues to discuss the new designer robes and other mindless chatter with women who are not truly her friends.

Privately, she marvels at herself for going along with it, for being able to. Perhaps madness runs in her family.

 

Just as Narcissa begins to come into her role, Lucius pulls away.

He begins to leave the house for hours at a time only to return sometime at the middle of the night after sneaking past the wards. Narcissa is furious, she feels the sense of betrayal already despite having no proof, and it is her worst fears confirmed – she did not shine bright enough for Lucius Malfoy.

Only the life beating inside her, confirmed by the Healers mere days ago, stops her from sharing her suspicions with Bellatrix. Her sister’s madness and unpredictable impulsions will not get in the way of this baby having both parents, even if they are in a loveless marriage. The gleam in Bella’s eyes is ever-present these days, and her sister grows madder with each body added to her already growing list.

She catches Lucius in the act one night as he enters their bedchamber after dark. She does not know the time; the Manor is dark and still and even the elves are asleep, but Narcissa will not chance a look at the grandfather clock in the corner of their room. Lucius strips off his robes and moves to change into his nightclothes. Narcissa seizes her opportunity.

“Lucius.” He jumps, startled, and she grabs hold of his arm.

“Narcissa, what—“

Her eyes latch onto the marred skin of his exposed forearm immediately, pale except for the puffy skull and snake, a striking black against his skin. Narcissa drops his arm as if burned.

“You fool,” she hisses, throwing the covers off of herself. She doesn’t care if she is overstepping her boundaries as a wife; did Lucius show any care for her when he joined such a cause? “You absolute fool. Have you any idea what—what _that_ can mean for us? How it can affect your family?” Instinctively, her hands travel to cradle her stomach. She isn’t showing yet, and it’s more imagined than real, but she believes she can feel the life pulsing there, feel the swell of her baby. Lucius squints at her in confusion before the realization hits him. He is not a man for emotions, but his eyes look suspiciously bright.

“Narcissa,” he says firmly, the palm of his hand resting against the surface of her stomach. “I told you once that I want you to trust me. I am asking that you do.” His throat works and Narcissa begins to feel some of the fight drain out of her. “I am no coward, Cissa, and I will tell you when you have no more reason to trust me. I am not doing this to harm our family, this will only work to _improve_ it.”

His words sound too similar for Bella’s for Narcissa to fully believe him, but she has no other choice. Considering the flaws in his logic will only drive her insane, more insane than she already feels, perhaps. She nods, suddenly tired, and closes her eyes.

She dreams of the impending war and a dragon that cries fire. Basalt tears fall from the creatures eyes as it looks at her, and its mouth seems to mouth one word:

 _Mother_.

 

 **iii)**     Slowly, the war and a madman begin to take everything she holds dear to her.

Bellatrix and Rodolphus are sentenced to Azkaban for torturing the Longbottoms to the point of insanity. Narcissa, now a mother herself ( _to an heir, thank Salazar above, it’s a boy and I will not have to subject myself to trying again_ ) cannot fathom what dark thoughts went through her sister’s mind. She is not a mudblood sympathizer like Frank and Alice, but the thought of young Neville being left parentless is enough to make her nauseous.

The Potters die and their infant somehow manages to kill the Dark Lord and isn’t that laughable, one of the greatest wizards in the known world brought down by an infant no older than her Draco, but Narcissa cannot find it in her to laugh. Not when Lucius is awaiting trial and the Ministry is watching their every move.

Lucius sends her owls daily, each more cryptic than the other, instructing her what to do with certain items in the house, locked away in rooms Narcissa has never even thought of visiting. They are all coded and Narcissa hopes that she understands him correctly; prison is not kind to even the strongest of minds and her husband is, she’s starting to realize, just a man.

 _My dearest flower,_ he writes her, _all will be well. We will persevere, you see, as we always do. I must confess, my mind is not what it used to be. Days, memories, events escape me, and I fear I have been living in a state of grogginess the past few months. A happy, euphoric haze of which nothing else was allowed to permeate my consciousness. I do not even remember the birth of our Draco. I beg you, Cissy, please hold onto this letter; I would like to remember all I have lost._  

Narcissa keeps the letter. Lucius manages to convince the Wizengamot that he committed what they call war crimes under the Imperius Curse, and he walks free.

The night he comes back, after a round of enthusiastic lovemaking, Narcissa makes her way to the nursery. Draco is asleep. He is the Malfoy heir in the truest sense – the pale hair, grey eyes, and the beginnings of his aristocratic nose are all Lucius. Not a trace of Narcissa is in her babe, but she loves him all the same, and vows to implement her influence where it counts.

“My dearest dragon,” she whispers, ghosting a kiss against his forehead. He squirms in his sleep. “You will never want for anything, my love. I will make sure of that much.”

III: CRONE

 **i)** The summer of Draco’s sixteenth birthday is the catalyst of everything else.

Or perhaps everything was set in stone long before that. Maybe it began when Lucius was sent to prison, this time not managing to talk his way out of it. Draco blames the Potter boy for his father’s imprisonment; Narcissa knows this because he rants about it at nearly every opportunity and she feels her heart break at him seeing this through a child’s one-track mind of hatred, and in doing so not comprehending the bigger picture. Narcissa cannot blame her husband’s shortcomings and mistakes on a sixteen year old boy, on one of Draco’s classmates. The mere idea is laughable but she knows if she laughs, it will be not unlike the hysterical laughter of the insane. Not even Harry Potter was capable of forcing her husband’s hand to make the mistakes he has, she wants to tell her son, but Draco is too spiteful, too caught up in hatred at this point.

Maybe it wasn’t her husband’s imprisonment at all, and rather the obsession with prophecy. Her husband, enduring a term of life imprisonment, because he and the rest of the Dark Lord’s sycophants were intent on obtaining a bloody _prophecy_ as  though they were third years in Divination. How fucking ironic. How utterly _insane_.

Draco follows in his father’s footsteps, much to her devastation. “I have to do this, Mother,” he says to her one night. His lower lip is trembling and his silver eyes, so much like his fathers, shine bright with tears. Narcissa is suddenly overwhelmed with just how young her son is. He takes a deep breath, regaining his composure, and holds his head high. “If I—if I do not— _succeed_ , in this mission, at least I can guarantee your life. You will be safe, Mother, and that is all I need.”

“My dragon.” She brushes his hair away from his face; once, Draco would have never entertained the thought of his hair not being perfectly in place. Once upon a time Narcissa would have admonished him for not putting his best appearance forward, but other things have priority now. “You _are_ my life.”

“Charming as this display of familial sentimentality is,” comes a voice from the doorway and Narcissa stiffens. She squeezes her eyes shut until colors burst behind her eyelids and reopens them. Bellatrix steps into the room, and as she does each time she sees her eldest sister, Narcissa feels what’s left of her heart crack a little more at how much Bella has changed; or – and this is a thought that keeps her up at night – that this was her sister all along, and she was too blinded by love to see it. “Don’t get caught up in your emotions, Draco, they will do nothing but weaken you. Daddy fucked up and you have to pay the price for it, my sweet, but you are being trusted with an important task, here.” The tip of her sister’s wand trailed across Draco’s chest almost lovingly. “All you have to lose is your life!”

Later she pulls Severus aside into an alcove, her lips hovering on the shell of his ear.

“I need you to save my son.”

 Narcissa wonders if love can ever be enough to save Draco for the sins of his father, sins which she was complacent in.

 **ii)**     The Manor, her home, her last refuge, becomes the headquarters of her husband’s Lord.

Lucius is broken out of Azkaban, though Narcissa cannot bring herself to look at him. She feels nothing but outrage whenever he is in the same room as her, whenever he tries to brush his hand against hers in a show of faux solidarity. Draco is a shell of his former self, gaunt and anxious and by all accounts a dead man walking. Narcissa begins to feel like one of the ghosts in the Manor; she wants to tell her son that his choices were in vain because at this point she believes she would be better off dead. They all would.

Narcissa is powerless to stop anything that goes on in her home these days. She is forced to sit and watch as the Dark Lord forces countless innocent people to that wretched snake on her dining table, watch as he tortures anyone for perceived slights, watch as Snatchers bring members of the community and her son’s classmates to their cellar which is now referred to as the dungeon.

 _You fool,_ Narcissa thinks whenever she braves a glance at her husband. Azkaban changed him. His hair, more white than silver, hangs limply around his face. Ashy stubble lines his cheeks and there are purplish half-moons under his eyes signifying his exhaustion. _You beautiful fucking fool._

Greyback leers at her from his seat at the table, his lip curling back to reveal yellowing, rotten fangs. “My Lord,” he begins casually, stroking his wand in an almost obscene gesture. “Say, I think for Malfoy’s insolence, or his failures, take your pick at which one—“ the table titters nervously, “I think the appropriate action to take here is to let me have a nice _discussion_ with Narcissa. It’ll serve her a lesson as well, for staying loyal to Lucius. Even the Malfoy pup can learn something from it.”

Red serpentine eyes rove over the table but Narcissa will not bend. _You are a Black. You have remained strong where the others have not_.

Lucius won’t look at her. She can hear Draco’s rapid breathing and mentally prays to whatever voiceless god is out there for the Dark Lord to not smell the fear he thrives on.

“I will consider it, Greyback,” is the sibilant response, and Narcissa tries not to sag in relief. “But are you implying that my methods of discipline are not up to your standard?”

Countless wizards surround them, and not one of them stood up for her honor, instead choosing to await her fate with bated breath and averted eyes. The room is silent as a crypt, but Narcissa lives to breathe another day.

 **iii)**     The Forest floor is soft and muddy beneath her feet and there’s a good chance her shoes and the hem of her dress are caked with dirt so deep that a cleaning charm will not even be enough, but Narcissa is past caring about frivolous things such as vanity.

She would be lying if she said she didn’t yearn for the times she took such careless worries for granted.

The Potter boy lay dead on the floor, taking with him the last bit of hope Narcissa had been foolish enough to hold onto. _This is it,_ she thinks as she takes in his lifeless form, so small and youthful in death it is hard to believe the boy is the same age as her son. It is hard to reconcile that could have been her Draco.

“Narcissa,” that cold, high voice calls at once and Narcissa stands at attention. “Now that you no doubt deem it worthy to rejoin our ranks, why don’t you attempt to regain some honor for your family and see if the boy has beat _this_ killing curse as well.”

Somehow, Narcissa manages to nod as she makes her way forward, her legs feeling more wooden with each step, until finally she kneels beside the lifeless body.

Harry Potter. Narcissa has never been particularly impressed with the boy – she doesn’t know if everything Draco complained about in regards to him is true, as she can admit her son is more than a bit dramatic – but from a mother’s perspective his only horrible mistake was choosing Weasley over her own Draco as a friend. She can remember telling Draco tales of Harry Potter, half-mortal half-myth, when he was a child seated on her lap before bedtime. She can remember James Potter from her school days, arrogant and immature but always trailing after the Evans girl like the Earth revolved around her, and maybe to him it did. Narcissa cannot remember ever speaking one word to the girl, now, but she feels a kindred spirit with Lily Evans; she knows what it is like, to be willing to die for your own son to live.

She places her palm flat against Potter’s chest and almost draws back in shock when she feels the steady _thrum thrum_ of his heartbeat beneath her fingers, defiant and alive. Leaning forward in order to appear as though she is checking his heartbeat once more, her hair falling in a curtain around them, Narcissa whispers the question that has been tormenting her since the Battle began: “Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”

” _Yes…”_

It is so soft that she almost doesn’t hear it, believing it to be a trick of the mind rather than a sound emitted by the boy everyone believes is dead. Her fingers clutch at his torn shirt in relief and she blinks back tears, lest the Dark Lord notices her crying and mistakes it for loyalty towards his enemy.

Narcissa is tired of being the perfect dutiful wife, of sitting back and looking the part of the beautiful trophy while her world goes to shit.

She thinks of the Mark burned into Lucius’ arm.

She thinks of how Lucius stood back and did nothing while countless people were killed, or worse, was the one who pointed his wand at them.

She thinks of Lucius sat silently at the dining table, lips pressed together in silence as Voldemort fed yet another innocent person to his snake.

She thinks of Lucius avoiding her eyes as Snatchers brought more muggleborns or halfbloods or the occasional muggle to their cellar to torture.

She thinks of the countless men in the Dark Lord’s ranks, skilled men, powerful men, averting their eyes without so much as a sound as their Master went on another paranoid rant, sometimes killing or torturing anyone unlucky enough to be in his line of sight.

She thinks of her sister Andromeda, who ran away to do something for herself, to live for herself.

She is tired of not having a choice.

Narcissa releases her hold on Potter’s shirt and stands up straight as she turns to face the red eyes of her husband’s Lord.

“He is dead!”

It is not the first choice Narcissa Malfoy has ever made, but it is the most meaningful one.

_Fin._


End file.
